


The Little Mystic and His Handler

by LadyGrey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kidlock, Poor Mycroft, Songfic, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, childhood headcanon, childrens work, long perspective, this is pretty sad actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:37:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGrey/pseuds/LadyGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a songfic written for Challenge 3 of the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge. It's based on the song "Children's Work" by Dessa. </p><p>Mycroft Holmes takes a long, sad, walk down memory lane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Mystic and His Handler

**Author's Note:**

> [Go listen to "Children's Work"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gSxSCv7Cegc) before reading this fic.

Mycroft hangs up the phone and sighs. Plans unfurl in his mind as they always do, but sometimes, in the privacy of his own home, Mycroft still allows himself to be afraid. Over two hundred civilians are confirmed dead in a sarin gas attack in Aleppo; Mycroft alone knows it wasn't the rebels, it was the bloody Americans looking for an excuse to get involved. His CIA contacts denied involvement and Mycroft believed them, but Mycroft will hunt down the people who ordered this and destroy them. 

Tomorrow. Tonight he will despair.

He pours himself a brandy and stares into the fire. It's nearly midnight and he's still in his suit, so he pulls off his tie and unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt. It's not enough. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and strips off his waistcoat. The help knows not to bother him in his study, so he doesn't concern himself with modesty. Mycroft Holmes is drowning in his own person and the trappings of his office are too heavy tonight. He folds them carefully on his desk before settling into his chair in front of the fire.

Mycroft's fingers trail over the time-worn green leather; one well manicured fingernail taps at the rows of antique brass tacks decorating the front of the arms. There are forty-seven on each side. 

It was his father's chair.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

”Father, what are you doing?”

“I'm reading. Shouldn't you be in bed, young man?” Daddy smiled at him and gestured for Mycroft, four, to join him in his chair. 

Mycroft dutifully climbed into his father's lap and turned very serious eyes to his father's face. His father's face was long and thin, topped by a shock of unruly dark curls, but his eyes always held a smile for Mycroft. Mycroft favored his mother, who was fair and freckled.

“I couldn't sleep,” said Mycroft, “and I finished the book about birds. It was for babies. I don't want to read baby books. I want to read real books.”

His father chuckled and gestured at the shelves and shelves full of books in his study. “Pick whatever you like,” he said, “then go back to bed before Mummy catches you.”

“I want to read what you're reading,” Mycroft says, reaching for the book in his father's hands.

His father blushes, for some reason, and holds it away. “I don't think you'll like this one, but I have one on the campaigns of Napoleon I think you'll really like, but it might have some very big words in it.”

Mycroft, even at his young age, favored history. He loved reading stories and knowing that they were all true, that the people in them really existed and that people like that might exist again. He already knew all about Napoleon. “I am very good at reading,” he said stubbornly, “but I want to read your book.” 

His father sighed, then shrugged. “Okay, but don't blame me when you don't like it.” He handed the small book, bound in blue, to Mycroft, who hugged it to his chest.

“Do you like it?”

“Very much,” his father whispered, for some reason, “it's my favorite book, so take good care of it.”

“I always take good care of books,” Mycroft says.

“Yes you do,” says Father.

“Mycroft? Oh thank god, I should have known you would be in here.” It was Mummy, come to find him and make him go back to bed. 

“I needed a new book, Mummy. I'm going to read Father's favorite now.”

“Oh are you?” Mummy raised an eyebrow, “and what is that?”

Mycroft hadn't even looked yet. “The Poetry of Elizabeth Barret Browning,” he reads from the cover of the book. Oh, poetry. Mycroft didn't like poetry, but if Father did, Mycroft still wanted to read it.

His parents exchanged a look. Mycroft hadn't figured out what all their looks meant yet, but he would come to know all of them by heart, and most of the reasons for them too. For the moment, Mummy seemed a little angry.

“Go back to bed now, Mycroft,” Mummy said, ruffling his hair and planting a kiss on his cheek, “I love you.”

Mycroft hopped off his fathers lap. “Goodnight. Thank you for the book.”

“Such excellent manners. You're very welcome. Now go on. Back to bed!”

Mycroft walked out of the study and all the way up the stairs, then he turned around and quietly crept back down to the crack in the study door. 

“You're still angry at me,” he heard Father say.

“I'm not,” Mummy said.

“I was just reading.”

“I have forgiven you,” Mummy said, “but I can't forget that she sent you sonnets. I'm sorry, I just can't.”

“It's over, I promise” Father said, “I was just reading.”

“Alright.” Mummy sounded sad.

For a minute, neither of them spoke and Mycroft thought he should probably go to bed now, then Father spoke again.

“Our boy is brilliant, isn't he?”

“Yes,” said Mummy, “but I worry about him. He's so serious. He's four years old and all he does is read. He never plays with other children, or makes messes, or misbehaves. I've never met such a biddable four year old in all my life.”

Mycroft did not like being in trouble. It was scary and made him cry and when he started crying Mycroft could not stop. So he was always polite and did not scream or yell or mess up Mummy or Father's things. And other children were mean and stupid and Mycroft didn't like them. Mycroft liked books the best, but Mummy did not understand. Father did. Father loved books too.

“Mycroft is special, Vi, and he will do great things one day. Stop worrying.”

Mycroft heard Mummy sigh and decided he should go back to bed before he got in trouble.

Mycroft did not like being in trouble.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Father was right, Mycroft did not like Elizabeth Barret Browning. Even now, as shaky hands bring the sweet brandy back to his lips, Mycroft has no idea what his father ever saw in her poetry. Father was a romantic, a romantic and a fool. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

_I require your assistance on a matter of some importance. Will you be in tomorrow? -M_

_Piss off, Mycroft. I'm not your errand boy. -SH_

Mycroft sighs, but he will go to Sherlock's flat tomorrow anyway. There are things Mycroft will admit to no one, and one of them is that he likes working with his brother. It reminds him of happier times, even if it's just a shadow thereof. 

* * * * * * * * * *

“If I don't read my books, I get sad,” Mycroft said to Mummy, “so I have to read them all the time.” 

“It's nice that you like books, dear,” Mummy said, “you are very smart.”

Mummy did not understand. Mycroft was trying to explain so Mummy would not worry.

“I am glad you got me a French tutor. Maybe when I get better at French I can explain better. Can I learn German too? I want to learn all the languages so I can explain everything. I bet there is a word in German to explain.”

“Explain what?” Mummy was looking at some kind of blurry pictures and not really paying attention.

“Why I have to read my books all the time. I know you don't like it.”

Mummy finally looked at him. “Never think that, Mycroft. If you love to read, you should read. I love that you read. And yes, we will get you a German tutor too. You can learn any language you want.”

Mycroft didn't love to read, Mycroft _had to_ read, but all he said was “Oh, okay. Thank you Mummy!”

“Now,” said Mummy with a smile, “would you like to see pictures of your little brother?”

“I don't have a little brother,” Mycroft said.

“He's in here,” Mummy said, and then she showed Mycroft the blurry pictures and pointed to her tummy.

Mycroft's eyes grew wide. “Mummy,” he whispered, “did you eat him?”

Mummy's eyes crinkled and she laughed and laughed, but Mycroft started to cry. “It's isn't funny, Mummy! I never even saw him and you ate my little brother! He's dead dead dead dead. . .” Mycroft just kept repeating “dead” as he cried, and he ran away when Mummy tried to pull him close. He did not want Mummy to eat him too.

Father found him later in the garden. Mycroft had run out of tears but was still breathing in big gasping breaths. “Mummy ate my little brother,” he told Father in a tone of utter despair.

Father crouched down next to Mycroft behind the chrysanthemums. “I promise, Mycroft, Mummy did not eat your little brother. Babies grow inside of Mummies, and that's where your little brother is right now, but he'll come out soon and he is going to need a very smart older brother to read to him.”

“So my little brother isn't dead?”

“No, your little brother is growing inside of Mummy and can't wait to meet you.”

“I will read to him every day!” Mycroft swore.

“He'll like that,” Father said. He pulled a book out from behind his back. “I got you a book all about babies.”

Mycroft took the book from his father. It was very big and very heavy and the words were very small, but there were lots of interesting pictures of babies in it and Mycroft got distracted looking at them. 

“You should probably go find Mummy,” Father said, “she is worried about you.”

“Okay,” Mycroft kissed Father on the cheek and stood up with his heavy book, “thank you for the book!”

“Oh my little genius, I will never stop giving you books as long as I live. It is my favorite thing.”

Mycroft gave him a rare smile and ran off with his book to find Mummy. She was in the dining room eating lunch.

“Mummy, I am sorry I thought you ate my little brother. Father says he is growing inside of you and will come out soon.”

“That's right,” Mummy said, “I'm sorry I laughed at you. You just surprised me, is all.”

“My little brother is in your tummy, right?”

“Right.”

“If I talk to your tummy, can he hear me?” Mycroft put one ear to Mummy's tummy under the table. 

Mummy laughed again but put a hand on his hair. “Yes, I think he can.”

Mycroft nodded and climbed out from under the table. “Don't go anywhere!”

Mycroft ran up to his room and put the big book about babies on his bed. He wanted to read it, but he thought his little brother would like a book about pirates much better. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Mycroft is out of brandy, so he pours himself another glass. The word he was looking for all those years ago was _melancholy_.

Please, Sherlock.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Mummy's tummy got very large and sometimes Mycroft could feel his little brother moving. He finished the book about babies and he now knew that Mummy had a uterus and that's where the baby was, and that when the baby was ready to come out Mummy's hips would actually get wider so the baby didn't get stuck and the baby would come out headfirst from Mummy's vagina. Mycroft was a little fascinated with vaginas, because he didn't have one, but Mummy refused to show him hers. In addition, Mycroft spent an entire week upset that he could not have babies because he was a boy. It was very unfair. Mycroft wondered if there was a book about how boys could have babies, but Father just gave him a queer look and said he'd look into it.

“What are you going to name him?” Mycroft asked one morning at breakfast. 

“We were thinking about Harold,” Mummy said, “Do you like it?”

Mycroft made a face. “Harold is a boring name. Don't name him Harold.”

“What do you think we should name him?” Father asked.

“I think you should name him Sherlock!” Mycroft said, “It's the name of his favorite pirate from my pirate book. He kicks me when I read him that story.” 

“I am not naming my son after a pirate, especially not a French pirate” Mummy says.

But Mycroft didn't listen. He started calling the baby Sherlock when he read to it in Mummy's uterus, and Father started calling the baby their little captain. 

Mummy was outnumbered, and when the baby was born, it was not named Harold.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Mycroft was not allowed to see the baby for a whole day after he was born. He cried for all of it until his Aunt, who was watching him while Mummy and Father were at the hospital, relented and took him to the hospital to see his little brother.

“Mycroft,” Father said, “meet your little brother, Sherlock Holmes.” He knelt down and the little bundle of blankets in his arms moved. 

Mycroft was getting very good at both French and German, and he knew a lot about babies now, but he didn't know the word to describe how he felt the first time he saw his little brother. The baby peeked out from the blanket and stuck a fist toward Mycroft and Mycroft smiled. Mycroft almost never smiled. In fact, when he wasn't reading or learning something, Mycroft was almost always fighting the urge to cry, but when he saw Sherlock for the first time he forgot all about books and tears and for the first time in his young existence the world did not seem like a scary place.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Mycroft knows better now. He is on his third glass of brandy.

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

Mycroft and Sherlock were inseparable. When Mycroft had to start going out for school every day, sometimes Sherlock cried all day until Mycroft came back and read to him. Mycroft smiled all the time now. He liked telling people all about his baby brother and he even made some friends at school who also had baby brothers and sisters. Mycroft told them all about how babies grew in uteruses and came out of vaginas, and the other boys all agreed it was very unfair that they did not have uteruses and vaginas and could not have babies. 

The baby book told Mycroft all about how to take care of babies, so he changed Sherlock's gross diapers and rocked with him in the nanny's rocking chair and fed him his bottles. Father said that if they got Mycroft a private tutor so he could stay home from school, he and Mummy could probably fire the nanny. Mycroft thought this was a brilliant idea, but Father was not serious. Sherlock had dark curly hair like father, but light green eyes like Mummy and Mycroft. He smiled all the time, but especially when Mycroft smiled. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sherlock's first word was “my,” and for the longest time it was the only thing he would say. Mycroft was very proud, because babies couldn't say big words, so “my” was the only part of Mycroft's name Sherlock could say, but Mycroft thought Sherlock was brilliant.

Mummy was less certain. “He should be talking more by now,” she said as Mycroft held Sherlock's hand and helped him toddle around the playroom. Sherlock was almost two years old, and he could look at a flower for almost an hour but refused to tell Mycroft anything about it. Mycroft thought this was very unfair, because he told Sherlock all his secrets. 

Mummy finally took Sherlock to see a special doctor when he was three and still hadn't said more than a few words. Mycroft heard Mummy and Daddy whispering later about something called “Autism” but they stopped talking when Mycroft entered the room. Mycroft was eight now and knew how to use the dictionary and he looked it up; it did seem to describe Sherlock well, but it also wasn't dangerous so Mycroft just felt glad he'd learned a new word.

Mycroft had his own ideas about why Sherlock didn't talk. Maybe he didn't talk because he didn't have anything to read, so Mycroft made him tiny books for his tiny hands and wrote all his favorite stories in them and started teaching Sherlock how to read.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Mycroft worked very hard and Sherlock finally learned to read. The first time Sherlock read one of his tiny books Mummy cried and held Mycroft in her arms all night long until Mycroft fell asleep. He was nine. It was kind of embarrassing.

Sherlock still retreated into silence for days at a time, but then, like a dam had broken, he would talk for an entire day about everything he saw. Mycroft made him empty books and taught him how to draw pictures and write it all down. Sherlock filled hundreds of them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mycroft still has every single one. Sherlock would murder him if he knew. Sentiment.

Mycroft sighs and stares into the fire, remembering when it finally all went to hell.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mycroft was fifteen and Sherlock was nine when Sherlock told Mummy about Father's other girl. He smelled of her perfume, and he wrote her letters in special envelopes and Sherlock had found purple letters in his desk that were not Mummy's handwriting (which Sherlock could mimic perfectly).

Sherlock didn't understand, but Mycroft did. That night he took Sherlock to bed with him while Mummy and Daddy screamed and yelled and broke things downstairs. Mycroft tuned it out and focused on Sherlock's mumbling in his sleep about spiders. 

In the morning, Father was gone, and mother was. . .less.

Mycroft was just furious. He threw Elizabeth Barret Browning into the fire and watched the tiny blue book go up in flames.

Sherlock disappeared. It took Mycroft hours to even notice. He thought to tell Mummy, but Mummy had locked herself in her room. Mycroft didn't even know the name of the new nanny, they went through so many. Sherlock had grown into a rather difficult child, moody and silent and unaware of the dangerous nature of most of his adventures. Sherlock loved having adventures, which is how Mycroft knew where to look. He started walking toward town.

Mycroft broke into a run when he saw the twisted wagon at the bottom of the hill into town. _Oh please, no!_ he prayed, even though he had stopped believing in God years ago. _Please, I'll do anything, just let him be okay._

Sherlock was not okay. It seemed he had gotten it into his head to ride the wagon down the hill, but been clipped by a car and overturned on the side of the road. No regular wagon crash would make that massive dent in the wagon. For the second time today, Mycroft was furious. He ran over to Sherlock's tiny body, so slender, so fragile, and shouted his name. “Sherlock! Sherlock, oh god please be breathing please be alive please I'm so sorry. . .”

Sherlock was breathing. Sherlock was alive. He opened his strange green eyes and looked at Mycroft, and then the tiny bastard smiled. “Hi My. I'm going on an adventure!”

Mycroft wrapped his arms around his little brother and thanked the god he didn't believe in for the miracle. “Why? Sherlock? Why didn't you take me with you? You always take me with you.”

Sherlock's smile fled. “You were angry. Mummy was sad. Father is gone and he isn't coming back. I think I cocked up, My. I need to leave.” His lip started to tremble. “I think I hurt my leg.” Sherlock's leg was scratched and bleeding, but did not seem broken.

Mycroft put his hands on the sides of Sherlock's face. “Don't cry, Sherlock, and I won't cry either. We don't need Mummy, we don't need Father, because we have each other. We will go on all our adventures together. Promise me.”

“Okay,” said Sherlock.

“Say you promise.”

“I promise, My.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

_All our adventures together, Sherlock. You promised. -M_

_You're a sentimental drunk, Mycroft. Enjoy your hangover in the morning. -SH_

Mycroft sets down his empty glass and puts his head in his hands.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Sherlock never forgave him for going away to Uni. Never.

“You promised, My! All our adventures together! You can't go!”

“Sherlock, you're almost thirteen years old. We both have to grow up, go to school, figure out what we're going to do with our lives. I have to go to Uni. One day, you will too.”

“I'm not going to Uni,” Sherlock crossed his arms and stuck out his lower lip, “I'm going to be a scientist pirate.”

Mycroft sighed. How could his brilliant little brother be so naïve? “You have to go to Uni to be a scientist, and nobody is a pirate any more.”

“I'm already a scientist, and if I can't be a pirate, I'll figure out another way to have adventures, but I'm not going to be anything boring. History is boring. You should stay here and be a scientist with me instead of studying history.”

“I'm going, Sherlock.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock, “but you're an oathbreaker, and when I get my ship I will make you walk the plank.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Grow up, Sherlock.”

Sherlock just glared at him and stalked off. He didn't speak to Mycroft for almost an entire year, and even after that, nothing was ever the same. Mycroft had learned to make friends, but Sherlock never did. Sherlock was entirely alone, and it took far too long for Mycroft, wrapped up in the whirlwind of his early twenties, to even notice.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

_You're the oathbreaker, anyway, not me. -SH_

_Yes, I know. Are you going to make me walk the plank? -M_

_Don't be an idiot. -SH_

_Apologies. -M_

_John accompanies me on adventures now. You had your chance. -SH_

_Yes, I suppose I did. Goodnight, Sherlock. -M_

_Piss off, Mycroft. -SH_

Mycroft lets his phone fall to the rug. Aleppo. Sherlock. Cocaine. John. Christ. Mycroft can't do this alone any more, but somehow, he has to. 

He had his chance, and he lost it, there's no point in crying over spilt milk. No point in crying over anything, really. 

Mycroft Holmes hasn't cried since he was fifteen years old, and he isn't going to start tonight.

Mycroft Holmes does not cry, but sometimes, he still prays.


End file.
